Escape to Venice
by Lee Pyro
Summary: The story of how Mosca and Riccio met...


**Note:** This story was originally written in German by Zarinha Lobo. It was translated into English by Lee Pyro.

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Escape to Venice

How Mosca and Riccio met.

"Another refugee boat discovered on the Italian coast. 150 African refugees temporarily arrested; 20 more still missing." Thus was the article which had appeared in the newspaper that morning. Mosca could barely understand Italian, but he could just decipher the words of the headline. In addition, underneath the article, was a picture of the ship itself. '_Twenty_,' he thought. '_So few, but that boat had promised them all freedom, freedom in Italy_.'

Mosca had gone aboard without hesitation, when without notice, a place had become open. He had saved money for many years and had received the last of it from generous relatives. A piercing twinge of a guilty conscience flowed through Mosca's body.

He and a friend had been on guard that night. They had awaited, holding their breath, the first sighting of the coast of Italy; which had appeared on the horizon, finally after a months-long journey. Then the police boats had gotten closer.

In a flurry of panic Mosca, and the three years younger Josse, had taken the ships lifeboat. Without waking anyone, they had disappeared into the grey of dawn. From there the police boats had driven the ship to the coast, where they then boarded it. Venice. Italy. Finally, they had made it. At least that was what Mosca had though at the time. In that very moment he had believed that all his wishes had been granted.

He had been the last of his family. His father, mother, sister, and younger brother had all died in one of the pointless civil wars in western Africa. When he had finally woken up, weeks after their deaths, he had felt so continuously and inescapably numb. His only choice was to work, to work for a ticket to freedom. Even if it was by an illegal refugee boat, he wanted to escape to Europe, to Italy.

He wanted to wake up in a warm bed and not be afraid of a mob of yelling men, who attacked with masked faces, banging guns all around. He wanted escape from the screams of his sister, and mother, and little brother, who had fallen asleep never to wake again. To never again be haunted by the sounds of his father whimpering out his final breaths, to never again experience war. He only wanted out, out of this place. Out…

And now, here he stood, a tattered newspaper from the stand in his the hand, a mass of clucking pigeons beside him, in a crowd of unknown people.

Josse has been caught three days before by the Venetian police when he tried to steal a handbag from an old lady. All the while Mosca had hidden cowardly behind one of the stone statues that stood in the large plaza, the Markus's place.

Again a shower of guilt coursed through Mosca. Josse had probably been sent back to Africa long ago. All refugees who were caught were sent back sooner or later.

Mosca carefully tore the article from the newspaper and folded it twice, before putting it in his trouser pocket. He felt a small hole with his fingers but it wasn't yet big enough to where the paper would fall through it. With long steps crossed Mosca the Markus's place. He had gotten into the habit of not stopping too long in places well visible to people. Although it had to have been almost a week since they had caught Josse.

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Mosca tried to edge the thought out of his mind. During the long, monotonous crossing a quiet understanding, a sort of acceptance, had arisen between the two boys. He had almost seen a kind of little brother in the 12 year-old. But in contrast to him, Josse still had family in Africa. At least he was not completely alone as Mosca was. Suddenly the swarthy boy was torn from his thoughts by loud voices. They seemed to come from one of the small lanes which went off from the place.

Slowly Mosca crept closer. Two men with black cloths over their mouths and noses had encircled a boy. One a knife held to him, while the other was taking the backpack from him.

"Hey", Mosca sprinted over. He was certainly not older than the attackers, but he was surely large for his fifteen years and the dark skin still deterred many people here.

Whether it was the loud voice, the hurried steps, or the sight of the big, black boy who came full speed upon them which frightened them, both men fled cursing. The knife fell to the ground. The loud boy clasped the backpack and stared with shaking lips at his right arm.

A fine stream of blood ran from the torn open sleeve.

Mosca was already with him. The boy sniffed and pulled up his sleeve. With dogged expression he bent forward, sucked mud from the cut and spat it out on the ground. Mosca already had a handkerchief which he had found few days ago in a gondola and wrapped it firmly around the boy's arm.

He couldn't be more than 10 years old, his hair was stubble-short, dark-blond, his eyes were brown like hazelnuts. He was trying to stare furiously and courageously at the same time, but a perfidious tear had already formed under his eyes.

The boy sniffed and looked at Mosca: "They wanted the money, you know." he said and his voice wobbled menacingly. "I'm a pickpocket and today was a, good day one could say. I already took the pocket of lots of rich tourists, excluding a priest. I could live off of that for a whole week!"

Mosca lifted his eyebrows. The little one seemed to have calmed down. The African boy could hardly understand the quickly babbled Italian but, at least, the child had stopped to sniff, take a good look at him and show him the contents of the backpack.

Mosca started suddenly. At least six big wallets passed away still some hundred liras lay there a few stacked neatly and a few hanging loosely in between.

"It was a good day today." said the boy again and grinning crookedly.

"Take some! You saved me! So I'll share with you!" he held out a wallet to Mosca.

Startled Mosca shook his head when he understood what the boy wanted. "It's your money." he said briefly and turned to go. The little one dashed alongside and caught up immediately, again trying to convince him.

"They don't belong to me either, actually. Two are from a fat married couple, one is from a fine Lady with fancy hat, and the others are from a German travel group. They never pay attention, the German ones." he shook the head and quickened his steps to keep up with Mosca. "Where're you goin'? Do you know where you're gonna sleep? "

Mosca slowly shook his head and then stopped on the street corner. No policemen were to be seen; presumably it had become too hot for them. Even the pigeons slowly disappeared during this time of day and only the tourists sat sweating in the cafes, waving only now and again with great effort at one of the official waiters to order a new ice coffee, or a piece of fatty cake. "Dang, it's so hot." The boy took up the last sentence again and sauntered casually about the nearly empty Markus's place.

"Maybe we can sleep in the foyer of the hotel‚" I have a good relationship with the doorkeeper there sometimes he'll let me sleep there. Otherwise more often I sleep in the sheds for the gondolas; they never do store them properly. Or we could go to the church." He looked at Mosca questioningly and Mosca skeptically looked back. "Are you mute or something?" the boy asked and had and already taken a breath to begin the next sentence. Mosca held up a hand to silence him.

"Slowly!" he rebuked the boy. "Speak slower!"

The boy looked at him amazedly. "Do you usually speak Italian?" he asked stressing every syllable. "A little." Mosca replied. "Speak slowly." he repeated and went continued further out of the plaza. "No problem. I'll teach you everything you need to know." The boy ran off ahead. "I'm Riccio." now he ran back, looking Mosca in the eyes he stretched out a hand." And you?"

"Mosca." said Mosca.

Riccio grinned showing two large gaps in his teeth.

"Thanks Mosca." he said and tried a smaller smile.

Mosca also smiled, he then nodded and shook Riccio's hand.


End file.
